The ocean was the first living thing.
It carries the memory—as precious as a black pearl—of its fashioning. 
This memory is the force of every being
That comes striving forth from beneath the skirts of her waves
And leaves her womb hollow as a conch shell, emptying and heralding a new age.
The water is blood red with the dark mysteries of the afterbirth.
Fiercely she protects all life, pulsing with the hope of it.
The rhythm is fluid and hypnotic. Protective and nourishing—amniotic.
 
The ocean was the first living thing but death is primeval,
As far off as the horizon and as sure and solid as a pebble on the shore.
It is waiting, beached at the world’s edge 
Where the mother of every creature is a still and ancient crone,
To greet her as a lover.
To lie in her dry bed.
To be caught up in her embrace
As salty foam sprays like the eager shower of a maiden’s kisses.